Salt
by dreadfuldread
Summary: The Doctor does not like to use food as a distraction. (Originally posted on my A03 account, thelordvoldemort, on 12/7/14 Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who or its characters. All mistakes are my own.)


Distraction becomes as much of a necessity as eating, which rarely ever is his distraction.

There's a sharp humming in his head; soft at first but quickly sharpening. He identifies this particular pitch as the TARDIS chastising him, but in a motherly way.

Twenty-nine days. Eighteen hours. Six -seven seconds. She's been gone that long; Rose not the TARDIS. The TARDIS is always there, except for those few times in the past, oh, three or so years that she wasn't; but Rose was. Now she's not. Anyways. The TADRIS is humming because he- the Doctor, that's him- has not eaten since before he said goodbye to Rose. That was Seventeen days, two hours, three minutes, and fourteen seconds ago.

He looked absolutely ghostly ("Ha! kill me," he nearly thinks in response to his own unintended pun, which is his fault, of course it's his fault), as well as ghastly. He had to clean himself up and shovel down some sort of substance. No need to have her worrying about him, was there? Nothing she can do about it; not anymore, not now.

He could go longer without food, in fact, he greatly considers it. But the TARDIS won't let him. Of course she won't.

The Doctor doesn't want anything. That's a lie, he does want something- someone: Rose. But he doesn't want food; not a banana (too many memories there), not

Jammie Dodgers (those stupid hearts cut in the middle was the bloody pinnacle of his hysteria before saying goodbye), not beans of toast or cheese on toast or bloody well anything on toast, let alone toast on its own (he doesn't want comfort food, he just wants something, anything that won't make him think of her for just a few minutes, that can't be too much to ask for.)

Saltines?

Well, as far as crackers go, they aren't too bad. The TARDIS has given the Doctor an entire sleeve of them. Maybe she plans to start him off with something simple; have him work his way up to nutrients and full meals. Saltines are a fairly safe way to start, he supposes.

The first cracker he places in his mouth is upside down. He can tell the exact moment the salt burns the cuts in his lower lip, but he can't remember how long those cuts have been there. His lips must have dried to the point of cracking and- is that..?

Darting his tongue out, he pushes remaining bits of salt into the cuts, causing him to hiss at the sting. There's blood on his lips; some fresh, some dried. When did that happen? Why didn't he notice? And why hadn't he let himself heal?

Admittedly, he has been very absentminded as of late. And numb. Probably thought the aching pain on his lips was from missing Rose's.

The Doctor doesn't want to think about that.

Not right now.

Another saltine gets shoved in his mouth; this one is upside down, like the last and all the others to follow.

The salt burns, but it burns nothing like that sun.

Chewing. Chewing is good. Best to chew before swallowing. His throat is strained enough.

Why is he even eating these?

A too sharp hum in his head causes him to close his eyes, scrunching up his face and biting his lip. His teeth dig into the cuts, coating their ridged bottoms with salt and blood. With a rough gasp, he opens his mouth, forming the shape of a silent scream. Though his face is still scrunched up, he can feel it stretching, too. It's tight and it hurts and he refuses to break out into a sob.

The hum softens, becoming a soothing lull with a hint of sheepish embarrassment. The TARDIS only wanted to help. Feeling slightly sheepish himself, the Doctor settles his face before carefully slipping another cracker past his lips. It's a struggle, the corners and sides of the cracker still brush along the seam of his mouth. There's a dull pain but he continues on. Maybe he should split the crackers in half. He can worry about the crumbs later.

Rose always teased him about the crumbs. Closing his eyes, he could imagine her sitting beside him, or maybe in his lap. She would tilt her head back and laugh before making a teasing comment and finishing it off with her tongue between her teeth as she smiled. The Doctor would smile despite himself and because he could never resist that smile- or more realistically, that tongue. Then he'd either wipe at his lips, or lick at them, or more realistically: rub his mouth all over her face. She would squeak and laugh and whine half-heartedly as she attempted to escape his attack, only to be stopped by his hands on her hips, pulling her to his lap or closer to him if she was already there.

And when he goes to reach for her, his fists close around nothing and the Doctor opens his eyes and remembers that Rose is not, in fact, there.

Damn it.

He's shoving more crackers into his mouth and focusing on the pain. And is he really that broken and helpless and pathetic that he's trying to hurt himself with bloody crackers? No pun, intended. He must be bleeding terribly now. Deliberately, he rushes the salted top of the next whole cracker roughly against his bottom lip. After he's chewed and swallowed, he flicks his tongue against his lip and groans.

Blood and salt.

The Doctor doesn't like blood. Not even after all those times that he and Rose would make it back to the TARDIS, bleeding, sweating, panting from running for their lives and then shoving one another up against the doors, the console, the jump seat, a coral strut and taking all the comfort and reassurance they could savage from and offer to one another. He liked those times; the times running, the times being safe, sated, tangled in each other's arms. But he didn't like the blood.  
He liked the salt, though.

To be exact; he liked the salt of her. The taste of her. Rose. Whether it come from the running or the love making (especially from the love making) or anything else, he craved the salty sweat of her warm, bare flesh like a fish craved water. Well, the fish that actually needed water to survive, as there are many species of fish that don't.

There are some species of fish that live on land, and there's even this one planet where the fish-like habitants rely on the pollen of local flowers to live. And milk. But still. The point still stands. Or stood. Because Rose is gone.

Other than the near handful of salt and crumbs, the saltine sleeve is empty. When had that happened? And what should be do now? He ate, like the TARDIS wanted him to. She's quiet now, save for the light humming in the back of his mind. Maybe she's waiting to see what he'll do; if there is something that he will do.

Sighing, the Doctor comes to a decision and licks his finger so he can collect more salt to place on his tongue. He closes his eyes and his mouth, wrapping it around his finger so he can suck on its tip. If he squeezes his eyes tight enough, he can almost imagine her taste still lingering on the pad of his finger.

Mostly, he just tasted salt.

Closing his eyes tighter, he tried to remember the way his tongue slid easily and smoothly into the hollow of her throat. It would make Rose gasp then sigh, only to begin moaning as he flicked his tongue in sure movements, mimicking the motion of his thumb on her clit. Then he'd suck and nibble at her skin, eliciting a soft groan or two from Rose. Of course, he'd soothe the reddened skin with his tongue; gather every last bit of salty sweat and musk of pheromones he associated as being genuinely Rose.

He reaches for the remains of his food once more, but his hand meets something cold, instead. Opening his eyes, he sees it's a cool glass of water and suddenly realizes just how parched he is. He ate an entire packet of salted crackers and never even considered trying to down any of it with water. His throat is dry and pained while his lips throb like pins and needles. Then all at once, the whole glass of water is chugged and all the Doctor can think about is salt, water, blood, pain, Rose, and his eyes are squeezed shut as he's found himself back on that beach with roughish wind that dragged sand from the ground and salt from the water and oh, Rassilon, he can practically taste it. It is soaking, seeping into his bones and his soul.. He is drinking in it in, breathing it in, filling his lungs and his blood and suddenly he is dry heaving; not that he can hear it, but he can only feel it. He thinks he's drowning in the salty air, of the beach, but really he knows he's not because the cracker sleeve is in one hand as he pours the remaining salt into his mouth and uses his other hand to pull at his hair as he tries not to consider what the hell it is he's doing and why he's suddenly coughing and choking and gagging and where the hell is that water coming from?

He can never go to a beach again. He can never eat a cracker again. He can never see her again.

The TARDIS only wanted to help, but now the Doctor is curled up in fetus position under the galley sink with the water still running. The Doctor bites harder into his still bleeding lips as he struggles to breathe. If he takes in a breath, he will definitely cry and he just doesn't know how much more salt he can take. The TARDIS only wanted to help, but all she can do now is sing. The Doctor begins to cry.

Salt is too salty and the Doctor is burning without her.


End file.
